Death Came Softly

by E. C. R. Lorac

  The Quex man turned to the affronted Jem.

  “Some of us likes to think things out a bit for ourselves, mate, don’t we?” he inquired. “Quite right, too. Never know when we may be called for a jury ourselves.”

  “Ha, ha! That be good. That be very good,” chuckled one old farm laborer. “Our Jem on a jury. Maybe they’ll make mun coroner before they be through.”

  “Maybe they will, Gran’dad,” said the Cockney good-humoredly, and turned again to Jem.

  “Ever driven your van up to Valehead House, mate?”

  “Me? I tell you I go up there every week. Wednesday mornings,” replied Jem. “I seen ’em all at one time or another. The professor and Mr. Keston, and Mrs. Merrion and her sister, and the Carters and the Bradys and that fellow Lockersley. I tell you I seen ’em all,” he protested.

  “Yes. I get you. You’d take your outfit up the drive,” said the Cockney, “and you can see the terrace where they all like to sit.”

  “That’s right,” said Jem, and the thatcher put in:

  “Yes. You seen them sitting on the terrace, and so you knows who did what, like a praper detective.”

  “Oh, I’m fed up with all your jaw,” said Jem indignantly. “I tell you I noticed a thing or two, and I’m not telling any of you,” and with that he made for the door. The Cockney followed him out amid good-tempered laughter from the older locals.

  “Counts hisself one o’ they brains trusts,” said the thatcher, and there was a roar of delighted approval at the witty sally.

  “That be good, that be,” wheezed the old farm laborer. “Our Jem on the brains trust. Not that I ever ’earkened to no brains trust,” he added. “I got me own brains to trust, and they kep’ me right sides up so far as be.”

  Jem, cooling his indignation in the pleasant evening air, was joined by his Cockney upholder.

  “Real hundred per cent hayseeds in there,” said the latter. “I can’t follow their lingo. Gets me beat. Now see here, mate. I been trying to remember all those people up at Valehead, and I’ve got mixed a bit. Seen a lot of people lately, and my memory isn’t all that. Just put me wise a bit. I remember the old professor with the white hair—fine old chap he was—and that Keston—like a toy on wires, all jumpy. Dark chap with glasses, going gray a bit. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Gray? Not so much as to notice. P’raps a few gray hairs, but he’s dark and thin and jumpy. I saw him talking to Mrs. Carter one day.”

  “Okay. Then this Lockersley. He’s a big chap, isn’t he, rather colorless.”

  “Yes, he’s a big chap, but he’s plenty of color. Dark hair and eyes.”

  “No, no, mate. You got that wrong. Wasn’t he the fair chap?”

  “No. I tell you he’s not. I saw him one day tinkering with the car. I asked Mr. Carter who he was, and he said, ‘That’s Mr. Lockersley. He’s a poet.’ ”

  “Well, seems one of us must be wrong,” said the Cockney. “Sure you haven’t forgotten, mate?”

  “No. I damn well haven’t forgotten,” said Jem indignantly. “If you’re going to tell me I can’t remember what I saw, I’ll sock you one for yourself.

  “That’s okay, mate. No offense meant, and none taken I hope,” replied the Cockney.

  * * *

  Half an hour later Detective Reeves, impersonator of a non-existent mechanic from Quex Radio, Ltd., was reporting the conversation in the bar and outside it to Chief Inspector Macdonald. By this time Reeves was picking up a fair imitation of a Devonshire accent, though his voice was too thin for it. “Iss, feggs. That be,” he said complacently. Reeves was a man of many parts.

  14

  When Bruce Rhodian received a summons to attend the adjourned inquest on Professor Crewdon’s death he was surprised and somewhat irritated.

  “Why the devil do they want to make me go down there to attend an inquiry and answer questions about an event which happened while I was in London?” he demanded. “They’ve arrested that chap Carter, apparently. Caught red-handed.”

  Rhodian had been talking to Mrs. Merrion on the telephone, and shortly afterward another call came through from Macdonald.

  “I expect you were surprised to get a summons for the inquest,” he said. “We want to put in some evidence about that incident in the cave, when Keston dropped a live match on some dead leaves. Lockersley is still laid up, and can’t give evidence, so we are calling you.”

  “Be damned to you—just when I’m busy,” grumbled Rhodian. “Couldn’t Keston give evidence on that point?”

  “He probably will, but we want corroborative evidence.”

  “So ho! It’s not so simple as it appears,” commented Rhodian. “Do you mean to imply that there’s still any doubt—about the upshot?”

  “I can’t discuss it over the phone, but I’ll outline the case to you when you come down here. It’s easier to explain things on the spot,” answered Macdonald.

  “Good. I’ll hold you to that,” replied the other. “If I travel by the one-thirty tomorrow, will you be free in the evening—say about eight o’clock?”

  “Certainly. Incidentally, shall I reserve you a room at the inn? I take it you won’t be staying at Valehead House.”

  “Oh—thanks, but why the assumption?”

  “Mrs. Merrion has had a lot of worry, and she’s still got Lockersley ill in the house, and Keston looking as though he’s going to have a nervous breakdown. Quite frankly, I should advise the inn.”

  Rhodian gave a whistle. “I say, you know, you’ve started me guessing again. I thought it was all cut and dried.”

  “Not for me to cut and dry. That’s for the jury. They give the verdict—according to the evidence. Anyway, I’ll tell the Valehead Arms to keep a room. You can always cancel it if you don’t want it.”

  * * *

  “Yes, I promised I’d run over the evidence with you, but not here, I think. The whole village is agog, and if someone doesn’t try listening at keyholes I’m no judge of village inns. I’ll run you out to Valehead, and tell you my notions of things with the cave to demonstrate in.”

  Macdonald was speaking to Rhodian just outside the village inn. On the small green close by a group of idlers stared at the two men. Macdonald was in his car, and Rhodian got in beside him.

  “Thanks, I’ll be only too glad to come and hear your dissertation,” he said. “It’s true that I didn’t know old Crewdon, but I do know his daughter—pretty well—and having stayed in the house I’m naturally intensely interested in it all. One can’t help speculating, even though it’s a grim, cold-blooded business trying to spot a murderer.”

  “Did you come to any conclusion of your own as a result of your observations, before and after the event?”

  Macdonald tilted the sunshade on his windshield as he spoke, for the evening sun was shining directly at them as they drove along the narrow road.

  “Not to say conclusions,” replied Rhodian. “I kept on jumping from one idea to the other. Keston always struck me as a rum bird; he was obviously nervy to the nth degree, ready to jump at a shadow, and disposed to suspect everybody. I didn’t much care for his snooping habits, either. He was always snooping around, coming up behind one unexpectedly and peering at everything suspiciously. He loathes Lockersley like stink, of course. I always expected they’d go for one another and have a real rough and tumble. I know Mrs. Merrion thinks a lot of Keston, but I disliked him somehow, even before all this happened.”

  He paused to light a cigarette and then went on: “I’m honestly surprised about Carter. I’d have put him down as an honest fellow, stupid in some ways, but reliable au fond. The only time when he surprised me was on that evening when I found you and Lockersley and Keston in the cave. I’d been out walking in the woods—it was a gorgeous evening—and when I was coming back I met Carter. He was prowling round in one of the byways, and when I met him he gave me the feeling that he was all het-up, like a cat on hot bricks. Not what you’d have expected from a tough like him. We walked down to t
he side of the stream opposite the cave; you remember there’s a bridge over the narrow end of the lake there—and we saw a glimmer of light in the mouth of the cave. I’ll admit it was pretty ghostly. One second the place had been all black shadows, perfectly quiet, and then suddenly the arched entrance appeared, faintly luminous, light against the surrounding dimness. I’m not superstitious, and I don’t take any stock in spooks, but I tell you it made my scalp prickle. Carter fairly dropped his bundle, so to speak, and yowled like a banshee, calling on all the gods in the alphabet to save him. He simply footed it up the hill. It didn’t seem unnatural at the time, because that glimmering light did look pretty startling—but thinking it over, I couldn’t make out why a big, hard-boiled bloke like Carter should have given way to plain blue funk, unless his conscience pricked him some.”

  “He’s probably superstitious—all sailors are. However, it didn’t affect you to the point of making you bolt.”

  “Lord, no! Fear doesn’t affect me like that. When I’m afraid I get angry and butt into things. That light in the cave had rattled me, so I went hell for leather to discover what it was, and found your circus. It puzzled me a lot, and Keston wasn’t forthcoming on the way home. He never spoke a word, and he was shaking like a man with malaria on him. When I got indoors I went and looked for Carter. He’d got outside a few drinks by that time, and was inclined to be quarrelsome when I chipped him about running away. It was after that that Lockersley made his famous boast: ‘I know who did it, and how they did it, and I think I know why they did it.’ It struck me as a silly thing to say at the time. I suppose Carter must have been listening in. It was Carter who laid out Lockersley, wasn’t it?”

  “It was. Carter was the only person in the house who had the fists to do it.”

  “Poor silly mutt! He ought to have had sense enough to know that he couldn’t help himself that way. Still, I suppose he was desperate.”

  “He was frightened, and a frightened man often gives himself away.”

  “True enough. Had you actually decided he was your man before he kindly provided the evidence?”

  “No. I had an open mind. It was possible to make out a case against several people, as you have been saying.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that Mrs. Stamford was involved? It was odd—everything seemed to start going crackers, as soon as she turned up here, and she was neck to neck with Keston when it came to nerves.”

  “She certainly got rattled. Well, here we are. I’ll park the car at the side. It’s not in the way.”

  * * *

  Macdonald and Rhodian strolled into the green gloom of the cave, and Macdonald said, “Sit down and wait until your eyes get used to the light. It’s confusing after the sunshine.”

  He lighted a cigarette himself and Rhodian sat down on the hermit’s bed. Macdonald went on:

  “By the way, you remember mentioning the idea of Meta fuel? I did find a packet of the stuff in the professor’s bedroom. It was curious, because I didn’t remember seeing it there when I first looked round the room. Can you call to mind the circumstances when Mrs. Merrion mentioned the idea to you?”

  “It was the day I came back here to fetch my traps—after tea. I went along to the lake with her to see the hydrangeas, and she talked about it then.”

  “Do you think anyone could have overheard you?”

  “I don’t know. . . . I suppose they could. We weren’t shouting, obviously, but neither were we whispering. I didn’t see anybody about—oh, wait a minute. Keston materialized out of the trees a little later, looking a bit madder than usual. He yelled out something, telling Mrs. Merrion not to slip, or some rubbish of that kind.”

  “I see. I wondered a bit. I had collected some of the ashes on the floor, under the brazier, when I first came in here. I had them analyzed. There was no sign of Meta fuel having been used, but a later lot I scraped up showed some vestiges of it. However, it’s not a major point. Now about your evidence regarding the smoke when Keston dropped a match. Just watch for a moment.”

  Macdonald struck a match and threw it on the floor; the flame ignited some dry leaves, and the smoke curled up and then bent and floated out of the cave’s entrance, as his own cigarette smoke had been doing.

  “Yes. That’s right,” said Rhodian, and Macdonald tossed his cigarette down, saying, “Wait a moment.” He then walked over to the lancet slit and stood with his back against it, saying, “Look again.”

  The smoke no longer cleared away. It hung in the still air and gradually began to fill the cave. Rhodian gave an exclamation. “Hell! Who’d have imagined that that slit made so much difference. It’s uncanny!”

  “It is, rather. I first noticed it by accident. Now when you and Keston and Lockersley were in here together, did any one of you stand with his back against that window?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I don’t remember, anyway. I should have noticed about the smoke, and I didn’t notice.”

  “Right. I wanted to get that clear, because it’s a question which will almost certainly be asked. The evidence of all three of you will be taken.”

  “How can Lockersley give evidence tomorrow if he’s sick?”

  “He can’t appear in the witness box, but he wrote a statement for me a day or two ago. It was an interesting document, because he set down every detail about that evening which he remembered, from the time Mrs. Stamford first came into the garden, including any conversation which he overheard or in which he took part. That statement will have to serve in lieu of his spoken evidence.”

  “I see. I should be interested to read it, and to see if our recollections tally.”

  “I dare say you can read it. Anyway, to get on with the story. As you know, the professor lay down on that slab where you are sitting, and there he met his death, by inhaling carbon monoxide. The overwhelming probability is that the gas was produced from glowing charcoal, and that the natural ventilation of the cave was tampered with.”

  Rhodian got up from his place and took a step over toward the rocky recess where the brazier stood.

  “Don’t touch it,” said Macdonald. “It’s possible the jury may come out here for a demonstration.”

  “I don’t think I’ve got you right. Do you mean that the old man lighted the brazier himself, and the murderer merely bunged up the window slit?”

  “No. I don’t mean that at all. Professor Crewdon knew too much about the lethal properties of charcoal to light it in a cave. It’s quite possible that even the draught which goes through this cave would not be enough to clear out all traces of such a deadly gas as carbon monoxide, with whose properties the professor was quite familiar.”

  “Then you’re still up against the problem of how the charcoal was ignited?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I admit the problem seemed a hard one at first glance, especially when one took into account that the professor was one of those people who woke up immediately anyone came into his room. The real problem was to discover a method of igniting the charcoal without entering the cave at all.”

  “That doesn’t make sense to me. It’s just impossible.”

  “Oh, no, it isn’t. It’s quite easy. It can be done with a minimum of apparatus, and very little preparation. If you will lie down on that slab, I will go outside the cave, and within three minutes I’ll guarantee that the cave will be filled with fumes, without my entering it.”

  Rhodian wiped his forehead. “It sounds devilish to me, like witchcraft.”

  “No. Not witchcraft. The mechanics of it are the commonplaces of everyday use. I found everything that I needed to hand in Valehead House—on Carter’s bench, in particular. He’s a neat and handy fellow.”

  Rhodian laughed. “You mean he actually left his booby trap lying there?”

  “If you like to call it a booby trap. Now wait and see. I’m going outside the cave. It’s true that I shall lean against the lancet from the outside. You’ll notice that, because it’s daylight now, but you wouldn’t have been aware of it in the
dark. One of my men tried it out when Lockersley was here the other night; and Lockersley noticed nothing. Keston butted in a little too early for the experiment to have had full value, but it was good enough. Now you just wait there, on the hermit’s bed.”

  * * *

  Rhodian did as Macdonald bade him. The C.I.D. man waited until Rhodian was stretched out on the stone slab, and then he, Macdonald, went outside. There was complete silence in the cave, save for the whispering of the wind in the trees, the murmur of falling water, and the occasional chirrup of birds. The golden light of evening shone in at the cave’s entrance, so that to eyes accustomed to light within every unevenness in the red rocky surface showed clear. The half-light of the cave seemed to be dimmed a little further as the lancet slit was obscured from outside, and then a trail of smoke began to issue, wraithlike, from the recess where the brazier stood. As though called into being by some witchcraft or mystic incantation, the faint coils of smoke spiraled up into the still air of the cave and hung there below the rocky vault. Coil after coil went up, like incense, fragrant smoke rising from dead leaves without any visible reason for its existence. Above the hermit’s bed the roof of the cave seemed to descend as the smoke settled, lower and lower, beneath the rocky vault.

  Rhodian lay staring upward, watching the blue coils spreading out into wraithlike fantasy. Like some mist or miasma, rising from a swamp, the smoke ceiling gradually descended until it was within a foot of his own face, and he suddenly sprang up and made a dive for the open archway and the golden light beyond.

  * * *

  Macdonald was standing outside the cave, and he saw Rhodian lurch toward the entrance. The chief inspector’s voice sounded more matter of fact than ever when he spoke.

  “That might be described as a good demonstration. I take it you don’t feel skeptical any longer about the possibility of achieving the desired result without going into the cave?”